Tom’s hacking cough dragged me back to the present.

The shock in his eyes mutated into humiliated, feral rage. How could a 130-pound woman drop a 200-pound man with one kick? He decided it was a lucky shot.

With a guttural roar he scrambled up, grabbed a solid oak dining chair, and swung it like a baseball bat, straight at my temple, spitting a slur foul enough to echo off the drywall.

I didn’t retreat. I pivoted off the centerline and let the chair smash into the plaster inches from my ear. Dust rained onto our shoulders. Before he could recover his balance, my left hand clamped onto his wrist like a vice and yanked his momentum forward.

My right hand shot out in a spear-hand strike. I tapped him exactly two inches above the Adam’s apple.

I didn’t strike to crush the trachea. I struck to educate. A blow to the larynx triggers an involuntary spasm that halts respiration for about three seconds.